


Catch

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bombs, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Fluff, Happy Ending, Honestly A Bit Silly, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Riding, Rimming, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:48:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7052281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Junkers decide to team up with Reaper's crew of fellow ne'er-do-wells, Roadhog decides they'd better keep their relationship a secret for their own protection. It's just for a few days. It's not like it's the end of the world again.<br/>If only someone would explain that to Junkrat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wow, it’s been a while! I have been consumed by a new job and now a new fandom! Overwatch hell, here I come!

I almost, almost wrote this as trans Junkrat because I am super into that head canon, but I decided not at the last minute. Maybe the next piece I write. Please let me know what you think, as always!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Junkrat is going to go flat-out barmy if he has to put up with this much longer.

So, okay, maybe it was his long-forgotten idea to “go legit” that sort of sparked this little experiment in teamwork. Yes, it’s a solid plan for keeping out of reach of any cops and it affords opportunities for him and Roadhog to sink their teeth into some prime loot. But at what cost? At what cost, for crying out loud?

They’d been on the lam in California, heading for Nevada with plans to hide out in the desert for a bit when ‘Hog had gotten the message on his phone (‘Hog has a big old brick of a phone from the old days while Junkrat has a burner phone, which he was given with strict instructions to use only for emergencies and which he uses exclusively to text dirty pictures to ‘Hog) from Reaper, offering a team-up for his planned attack on some high-profile industrialist. Two surprises there— Reaper always seemed like the “go it alone” type, so the idea that he would pair up with the Junkers of all people seemed odd, and the fact that he didn’t even encrypt the message smacked of another trap. Either that or he assumes they’d be too stupid to decode it.

So they were wary. But then it became apparent that they weren’t the only ones he’d made the offer to— Widowmaker was en route to the meeting place he’d mentioned, along with a dozen or so other high-level covert criminals, and he’d evidently called McCree as well, though the gunslinger deemed their cause unworthy and turned him down. Alright then, they’d decided, this could be a real thing, a fun way to pass some time and the chance to stick it to some rich bastard.

They make their way to the rendezvous point and from there Reaper leads the lot of them to his super-secret cliche baddie lair. It’s full of high-tech dross and tall-backed chairs that are obviously meant to be sat in whilst menacingly steepling one’s fingers and cackling. Junkrat’s ever so eager to strap a few rockets to one and watch it skitter across the shiny marble floor, but before he can, Roadhog wraps one massive hand around his middle and hauls him off to one side, well away from the others. He crowds close, almost pinning Junkrat to the wall, which immediately puts all sorts of ideas in the young demolitionist’s head.

“Ooh, Hoggie, feeling frisky are ya?” He giggles and starts to reach out, but his hands are batted away.

“We can’t,” ‘Hog says sternly. “Not while we’re around them.”

“What?” Junkrat blinks up at him, looking crestfallen. “Whaddya mean?”

“They,” he jerks his head toward their temporary allies, “Can’t find out about this. Us.”

“Why not?” For a maniacal killer, Junkrat can pull the kicked puppy look like nobody’s business. “What do they care if we’re-“ _totally mad for each other_ “-bumping uglies?”

Roadhog’s face is obscured by the mask but he manages to convey a complicated array of emotions including but not limited to disapproval, annoyance and possibly concern. “D’you remember what happened to Widowmaker’s husband?”

“She’s married?”

He snorts in frustration. “Not anymore, that’s what I’m— just keep it to yourself. No affectionate behavior, no innuendo, no shovin’ yer hand down my pants, no nothin’. Got it?”

Junkrat leans sulkily against the wall. Peers up at him hopefully. “Does hand-holdin’ count as affectionate?”

‘Hog growls and presses a hand to the kid’s throat, leans just a fraction of his weight into it. “Jamison. Got it?” He repeats.

Junkrat droops, hunching inward. “Yeah.”

Satisfied, if not remotely happy, Roadhog releases him and steps back. This is what’s best for both of them, for their safety, their continued survival. For fuck’s sake, it’s only for a few days! He tells himself that as he clomps back over to rejoin Reaper and Widowmaker, watching Junkrat slouch along beside him out of the corner of his eye. Fortunately their host doesn’t seem the least suspicious of their sudden disappearance and reappearance; Widowmaker is engaged in regaling them with a story about garroting a mime with his own accordion, and the few that aren’t raptly attentive are wandering around the great subterranean hall that makes up Reaper’s foyer.

When the story is finished, Reaper clears his throat and begins to lay out his plans. The ceiling projects a huge hologram of the building they intend to hit, bristling with cameras, guards and layers of the best security money can buy. Their goal is the vault at the heart of the place, which contains some rare element that will allow Reaper to make a weapon so powerful it will blah blah blah, his voice drones on as Junkrat’s minimal attention span fades and refocuses on other things, such as Roadhog, or the door with the sign that reads “Shooting Range”, or the sign underneath that one that reads “Accident-Free Workplace for: 0 days”, or Roadhog, or the fact that there’s a “Cat Fancy” magazine tucked in among the stack of “Warlords Monthly” on a nearby coffee table. Or Roadhog. He sighs and drops his rip-tire onto the floor, sitting heavily on it with legs akimbo as he waits for the presentation to end.

Finally, perhaps detecting that some of his audience are growing increasingly distracted, Reaper finishes up and directs them all toward a second hall, arrayed with seemingly endless doors. “Your rooms,” he says dismissively, addressing the group at large. “Tomorrow we attack.”

The handful of assassins, thieves and mercenaries immediately begin filing into the many rooms, avoiding each other out of instinct. Junkrat picks a door a random, boots it open and whistles at the sight of the bed, much nicer than what he’s used to, with its fancy duvet and actual pillows. “Now this is more like it, eh, ‘Hog-?” He half-turns, automatically speaking over his shoulder before realizing that Roadhog is standing in the doorway of the next room over, hand on the doorknob. He shakes his head ever so slightly at Junkrat, a reminder, before ducking into his own room and shutting the door behind him.

Huffing a series of creative swears under his breath, Junkrat stomps into his room and hurls his gear at the provided armchair, knocking it over and shattering a nearby lamp. Thankfully for everyone but him, nothing in his bag explodes. He putters around the room briefly, investigating the closet, small adjoining bathroom and the television which only seems to play the History Channel and every home makeover show known to mankind. He flops onto the mattress (it’s even comfier than it looks, and he mourns the fact that it will only be used for sleeping, what with his behemoth boyfriend suddenly going all chaste on him), grumbling. He gets that Mako is a private person— Hell, it’s only recently that he even learned the man’s real name— and he respects that; they each show affection in their own way. Junkrat’s way is more blatantly obvious, that’s all: he’s the one that plants a smooch on the rubbery surface of the gas mask after a job, or tucks a flower from a blown-up florist stand into the big guy’s hair when he’s not looking, or says the L word a dozen times a day without expecting to hear it back. When they’re alone, it’s a different story. ‘Hog is much more comfortable being physically demonstrative in the relative privacy of whatever motel, abandoned warehouse or shack they’re holed up in, getting handsy and even cuddly while Junkrat goes red and giggly at being the recipient of so much positive attention. That’s how they work, that’s fine. But this is… this is about what other people think of them, and Junkrat’s never given a toss about that.

After a moment he digs his phone out of his pocket and punches out a sullen, _Hope ur happy u fckn arshol_. He hits send and then immediately types out, _I miss u_. Sends that as well.

There’s no reply but after a moment the word ‘ _Read_ ’ pops up under both texts. That fucker. _U fuckr_ , he sends. Then, _M sry i called u a fukr_ , followed by a dozen tiny animated icons of hearts and explosions.

_Read_ , says his phone. “Fuckin-“ That does it. Holding his phone in his mechanical hand, he shoves his other arm down his shorts and gets hold of himself, undoes the zip— he’s not exactly inspired but he pumps with grim determination for a few moments, enough to get halfway, before snapping a photo and sending it. There. He waits for a reaction. Through the wall, he hears the bed next door creak. _Yes, yes yes yes_ , he thinks, wriggling in anticipation as he waits for the door to bust open and that familiar growl to sound in his ear.

His phone goes off, text alert jangling, and he squints at it in surprise.

_Go to sleep, J_.

He stares at the screen in dejected shock, which quickly morphs into fury. “Schlanger!” He chucks the phone across the room and hears it bounce off the wall with a satisfying clonk. No longer in the mood to even try, he tucks himself back into his pants and rolls onto his stomach to bury his face in the pillows, only to leap up when he hears the text tone again. He retrieves the phone from the floor, impressed to see it hasn’t cracked, and reads: _Don’t forget to take off your leg. Otherwise it’ll hurt tomorrow_.

Fuck. That nails him right between the lungs.

He slings himself back onto the bed, all the rage drained out of him in an instant, and whines quietly to himself. He undoes his leg, setting it at the foot of the bed, and in a moment of overwhelmingly sickening sentimentality, he leans up and presses the palm of his organic hand to the wall above the headboard, right where he imagines Roadhog must be leaning. Thoroughly disgusted with himself for that little display, he slides down the bed and curls up on top of the covers, not bothering to remove his arm in case he gets attacked in the middle of the night. He fumbles for his phone, sending one more text: _Gnite, hoggywog_ , before dozing off.


	2. Chapter 2

Roadhog wakes up sometime around 4:30 in the morning, which is usually the time Junkrat’s sleep-twitching reaches thrashing levels and prompts him to roll over and sling an arm around the smaller man until he settles. As it is, once he’s woken and remembered after a brief moment of reaching around blindly that he’s alone, he can’t get back to sleep himself. He lurches upright, pulls on his boots and mask and steps out into the hallway in search of something resembling breakfast. He pauses outside Junkrat’s door, considers knocking or just barging in, and decides against it.

He finds a relatively small kitchen-slash-breakfast-nook just off the main hall, and he ducks through the doorway and starts pawing through the refrigerator. There’s a faint hissing sound behind him and he turns, gun in one hand and milk carton in the other, to see Reaper.

“An early riser, I see,” the black-clad man observes.

‘Hog grunts and sits heavily at the table, dropping a plate of mixed cuisine down in front of himself but making no move to eat yet. He’s not sure what Reaper wants and he’d rather not be surprised with a mouthful of food. After a pause, Reaper breaks the silence once more.

“I deliberately sent my offer to you,” he intones, crossing his arms. “Not your… companion.”

_Congratulations_ , Roadhog almost says, _You got a two-for-one deal on psychotic Ozzies!_ Clearly Jamison’s been rubbing off on him in more ways than one. He limits himself to a, “So?”

“He is… young,” the word is said with barely-contained revulsion. “Excitable. Inexperienced. His presence is an unforeseen complication. One that could potentially hinder the execution of my plan.” That sounds vaguely threatening, and Roadhog narrows his eyes behind the mask, silent. Reaper makes a motion that is almost a shrug. “You work for him, yes?”

They’ve had a different, much more intimate arrangement than client and bodyguard for quite a while now, but he grunts noncommittally, to see where this is going.

“So I’m making you a better offer. After the mission, you drop him and come work for me. I guarantee I pay better than he does.”

In the old days— not the old-old days but the ones in between, when he was just himself and not a part of whatever he and Jamie are now— he’d have done it, or at least considered it longer than a millisecond. He must really be going soft, though, because he feels a surge of something like loyalty when he growls out, “Piss off.”

Reaper looks surprised at that, as far as ‘Hog can tell, and he seems about to retort when there’s the soft sound of slippered feet in the hallway, interrupting.

They look up as Widowmaker wanders into the kitchen, leaning blearily against the doorway with a giant mug of coffee clutched in her hands like a life preserver. Her hair is piled into something like a fashionably disheveled haystack on top of her head and she’s wearing a black robe and slippers with a little spider pattern stitched on them.

“Where did you get that?” Reaper asks. “I don’t have a coffee maker.”

She blinks at them slowly, disdainfully, and takes a long slurp from the mug as she turns around and scuffs her way back out of the room.

Roadhog turns his attention back to Reaper, who shakes his head. “I must say, I am… disappointed by your answer. I thought you were smarter than that.”

‘Hog gets it. He does. His little Rat is the embodiment of the term “loose cannon”. He’s unprofessional, temperamental, unpredictable and quite frankly annoying. There are days when he still wants to choke the hyperactive bastard. But they’re far outnumbered by the days where being around Jamie makes him grin behind his mask, makes his heart pound with want and the joyful chaotic thrill of the hunt, makes him feel almost like a person again, like Mako instead of Roadhog. He’ll take those days over any pay raise. He’s pretty sure he loves the little maniac, even if he’s never exactly said it out loud.

He stands, shoving away from the table and taking his laden plate with him as he brushes past Reaper and heads back to his room to eat instead. Settling onto his bed once more and leaning back against the headboard, he pushes his mask up and digs in, figuring Reaper wouldn’t likely have gone to all the trouble to hire everyone only to poison their food. As he eats, he hears a slight noise from the next room— the bed squeaks and knocks, and there’s the softest little whimpery groan, punctuating rapid breaths. Roadhog swallows, feeling warm all of a sudden as he recalls the picture Jamison sent him last night. It had taken a lot of self-control not to smash right through the wall and take the persistent little fucker up on his offer. Now it seems Junkrat’s decided to pick up where he left off. ‘Hog swallows again, throat dry, and sets his plate aside on the nightstand in favor of tilting his head back to get a better listen. All of a sudden, the noise stops. He strains closer, curious, and hears a faint sniffle, a clank, followed by the uneven sound of foot and pegleg trudging across the carpet. His heart sinks as he realizes what’s happening: just as he was woken by the absence of Junkrat’s flailing, Junkrat woke without Roadhog’s arm around him and is now pacing the room in an anxiety-driven fervor.

He’s hauling himself from the bed before he even realizes it, automatically intent on barging into the other room and wrapping Junkrat up in his arms, coaxing him back into the sleep they both know he needs. He just barely stops himself, hand on the door, hearing unfamiliar footsteps in the hall. The others are starting to move about. If he sidles into Junkrat’s room now, they’ll see and draw their own conclusions. Grinding his teeth, he steps away and climbs back onto his bed to finish eating.


	3. Chapter 3

A tiny baby chapter of mostly flashbacks, but I wanted to get it posted. Next one will be longer!

* * *

 

 

They all pile onto Reaper’s private jet, some people settling into the provided black leather seats and others choosing to disappear into the cargo hold. Junkrat plops into a seat by one of the windows near the cockpit, and is delighted to learn that the chair swivels. He spins, kicking his foot and peg, and catches sight of Roadhog sitting towards the middle of the plane, pulling a rumpled paperback from somewhere within his pockets. It’s hard to say whether he’s avoiding Junkrat’s gaze or not. Fine. 'Hog wants to ignore him, that's fine. He doesn't care. He's not upset, and he's _certainly_ not pouting. He turns away, wishing they could jump ahead to the bit where he gets to blow something up.

The plane rumbles to life and takes off smoothly.

Roadhog watches his partner out of the corner of his eye, expression hidden by his mask. He’s got his book in one hand, but every time he tries to turn his attention to it he ends up reading the same sentence over and over again. He sees Junkrat sigh dramatically and turn to look out the window, legs swinging absently. Maybe the flight will lighten his mood. The first time they’d flown, Junkrat had puked his guts out while Roadhog tried to simultaneously avoid getting splattered and not move around much as his weight shifting caused the tiny plane to lurch, which only made the problem worse. The second time they’d ridden a much larger plane and Junkrat had loved it. Flying seems to soothe him, so long as there's not too much turbulence involved.

He watches Junkrat yawn expansively and lean back in his chair, and he considers the events that led to this situation.

It had started slow and awkward, then rushed forward headlong into something close to friendship, or at least understanding. For someone that grew up scrabbling to cling to life, fighting tooth and nail for every breath and scrap of food, Jamison has a kind of— certainly not innocence, not after all he’s seen and done and all that’s been done to him— something closer to awe for the massive beauty and strangeness of the world. Roadhog’s spent half his life surviving in a toxic wasteland. Jamie’s lived his entire life in one. Until they embarked on their international crime spree, Junkrat had never seen the world outside of Oz. It had blown him away, still does at times, all the bizarre little conveniences and towering buildings, the plants and animals and people. Some days the places they go seem to inspire a wide-eyed childlike wonder in him, and other days they fill him with murderous rage. Jamie’s first view of the ocean had rendered him silent for a full five mindblown minutes, while his first glimpse of Buckingham Palace had sent him into a frothing rant. It was hard to say what would and wouldn't set him off most days.

Roadhog remembers the first time they got caught in the rain in London, the instinctive panic when the first droplets struck their skin. His alarm was quick to fade when he remembered that rain hadn’t always been a deadly acidic nightmare from above, remembered when he and his family welcomed the rare sight of clouds gathering over the farm. Junkrat, on the other hand, had never known that time, and he swore and yelped and tugged frantically at Roadhog’s hand, trying and failing to pull him to cover. Which was a bit sweet, in retrospect. ‘Hog had stood there, immovable, lost in memory, while Junkrat went apeshit around and on him. After a minute he’d simply reached out and placed on hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Junkrat had frozen instantly— it was early on in their partnership, and it was so rare for Roadhog to touch him outside of hauling him away from oncoming bullets that his attention was immediately captured. Slowly, his expression changed: horror became confusion became surprise and finally amazement. He tilted his head back to blink cautiously up at the sky, at the drops of water sliding harmlessly down his and Roadhog’s skin. ‘Hog had looked back at him and smiled under his mask, and that had been the start of things. Roadhog had slipped back into Mako for just a second through that smile, and he continued to slip more and more frequently from then on.

Once, they’d hopped a plane flying over Central America, and when Junkrat peered out the window and saw the spread of green jungle below them, he’d begun humming a crooked little tune under his breath. When ‘Hog nudged him and asked about it, he’d looked startled at having been caught out, and sheepishly admitted that it was something his mother used to sing. The green, he’d added, reminded him of her. “She liked to grow things,” he explained. “Back when she was alive and we still had water, before it went sour.”

Roadhog had been stunned enough to reply with a quiet, “Mine, too.” His _whaea_ had loved the family farm and her garden, and his memories of her are all tinged with the smell of the earth under her hands, the same red earth she was buried in when she died.

Roadhog shakes himself and tries to turn back to his book, but that only makes him think of the time they hid out in the half-scorched shell of an abandoned library. Once they’d hidden the bike and made certain the place was secure, he’d picked up a relatively intact novel from one of the shelves and started flipping through it to pass the time. As he’d done so, he saw Junkrat select a book, open it, and scan the pages with a look of utmost concentration, his tongue clenched between his teeth. He was holding the book upside-down and darting quick looks over at Roadhog as if to be sure he was doing it correctly. ‘Hog had grunted and put his own book down. “Can’t read?” It made sense; most people born after the crisis couldn’t. Literacy hardly took precedent over survival.

Junkrat had gone scarlet and hunched in on himself even more than usual. “Course I can!” He’d snapped defensively. “I’m just— looking at the pictures! Mind yer own business!”

Roadhog had sighed patiently and beckoned him over, and when he’d cautiously approached ‘Hog had pulled him down onto his lap and taken the book in one vast hand. “Know any letters?” He’d asked, flicking through the pages for a good place to start.

Junkrat had crossed his arms and refused to look at him, still blushing. “Some,” he’d admitted. “Kinda.”

‘Hog had grunted again and tapped at a page. “Right. What’s that one?”

Junkrat had glanced down, then away, fingers twitching as he replied, “That’s that first one. Um. A?”

“Good,” Roadhog praised, chuckling when that caused the blush to rise once more. They kept going, Junkrat slowly sounding out words and Roadhog occasionally coaching him through one until he managed to read off, “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit,” without stuttering or getting frustrated. He’d glowed with pride at his accomplishment, and then ‘Hog had pushed up his mask and kissed him for the first time, and then they’d gotten a bit sidetracked from their reading lesson, which was fine by both of them.

Roadhog blinks when someone walks past him, interrupting his trip down memory lane, and realizes he’s been sitting there staring holes into Junkrat. Thankfully it’s not obvious with his mask obscuring his eyes, but Junkrat must sense it because he turns and stares right back with a sort of questioning look in his emberlike eyes. ‘Hog pretends to read his book.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They’ve just touched down in Reaper’s stealth jet near the target, and after the eight-hour flight Junkrat’s beginning to get the sneaky suspicion that he’s not entirely welcome. His attempts at comradely banter with his peers have all been brushed off or shot down (quite literally on more than one occasion) and his offers to upgrade his teammates’ weapons (primarily by duct-taping grenades onto things) have been met with derision, if not open hostility. When he tried to sidle up next to Roadhog’s seat, he was hoisted by one huge hand and deposited several spaces away. Fine. He can take a hint.

The building is a monstrous corporate tower with balconies and open promenades on every other level, decorative gardens and fountains here and there. That pisses him right off; he’s never gotten other countries’ weird obsession with displaying water in an endless burbling loop right there in the open and adamantly not allowing people to drink it. It’s obscenely wasteful in his opinion, and ’Hog has had to haul his young companion away from many a statue-adorned fountain and shocked passersby while Junkrat kicks and rages about the unfairness, the audacity, the selfishness of it all, his face and chest dripping with coppery, bird-shit-tainted water.

The snipers and nimble-footed climbers are immediately launching themselves upward with various grappling devices while the more earthbound members of the group plow forward, taking out guards on their way toward the stairs and elevators. Junkrat follows along, hurling explosives as he goes, but gets frustrated halfway across the lobby and catches hold of ‘Hog as he goes galloping by, swinging up to hang off his back like a limpet. Roadhog sighs indulgently, carrying onward.

Their goal is on the fortieth floor, and after legging it up a few flights of stairs ‘Hog is wheezing and coughing up a storm. Junkrat is quick to pull two fresh filter canisters from his vest strap and, leaning forward over his partner’s shoulder as they charge along, trade out the depleted ones on the mask. Roadhog’s breath comes a little easer and he shows his appreciation by snatching his passenger from his back and slinging him upward, past half a dozen flights of stairs to land on floor thirty-five. Junkrat whoops and cackles and goes cantering off, knowing ‘Hog will catch up in his own time. There are alarms blaring already, security omnics exploding left and right in his wake, and he’s actually enjoying himself for the first time since they started this venture.

And then the heroes start showing up.

Junkrat’s just rounding the corner of a hall of offices, scattering traps behind him and watching suit-wearing nobs scatter before him, when a kick catches him squarely in the chest and sends him tumbling backward. He lands, just narrowly missing his own trap, and sees Tracer bounding away, winking at him as she handily avoids every trap and bomb he’s laid out.

“Cheers, Ratty!” She yells, snipping the tripwires and hurling most of the devices out the window to explode harmlessly midair. “Didn’t expect to see you here; is Widowmaker about as well?”

“Yeah,” he calls back, standing and brushing himself off. He doesn’t mind bantering a bit. “She’s around somewhere.” He draws a detonator out of his back pocket, flinging himself to one side when she fires her pulse guns at him.

“Thanks,” she giggles, zipping forward and back to dodge an explosion. She appears at his elbow, snatches the detonator, and chirps, “Tell your fella I said hi!” before disappearing.

He rolls his eyes, thinking _So much for that plan of yours, Mister Discretion_ , before pulling his spare detonator from another pocket and continuing on his way. He hears, from a few floors down, the booming laughter of his ‘fella’ and a spiraling scream that tells him someone’s just been hurled down that endless stairwell.

Up another series of steps, around another corner, and he comes face-to-barrel with Soldier 76. Junkrat gulps, arms pinwheeling as he skids to a stop before the grim-faced hero. His thumb inches toward the button on his detonator, thinking that if the boom doesn’t blow off too many of his limbs he might make a getaway while 76 is stunned. He’s saved having to find out, surprisingly, by Reaper, who wraiths his way into the room and flies at Soldier 76 with single-minded determination. The two combatants immediately forget the Junker’s presence entirely, allowing him to tiptoe past them and up to the next level. A number of others from Reaper’s team are sort of bottlenecked on this floor, caught up in a clash with the security omnics and one or two more heroes. Tracer and Widowmaker are duking it out all over the room, and Reaper and Soldier 76 have managed to drag their fight up the stairs. Junkrat decides to avoid them by taking the stairs that lead up from this level’s balcony. Lo and behold, there’s yet another fight happening on the damn balcony.

Mercy’s fancy suit is scuffed, the glowy wing things she normally has sputtering and flickering, apparently too damaged to lift her into the air. She’s holding her side like she’s got a few busted ribs, and her sidearm is nowhere to be seen. One of the heavy-hitters from Reaper’s group, a burly, one-eyed man with a mace, has caught hold of her leg and is hefting his weapon with lethal intent.

Junkrat recognizes her; she passed through Junkertown with a group of exhausted aid workers when he was just a kid. They hadn’t stayed long (Junkertown isn’t exactly a rest stop), but he remembers the blonde lady with the shining armor and the posh accent who’d taken the time to give a skinny little kid whose leg had been blown off a quick course on building and maintaining prostheses from limited materials. He doesn’t especially wanna see that lady get crushed to death.

_Fang it_ , as his dear ol’ mum used to say. He charges forward, as well as he can charge with his uneven gait, and slams into the guy with all the force his lanky frame can muster. It works, sort of, in that it knocks the man off-balance enough for Mercy to kick free and roll away. It also doesn’t work, because now the guy has his sights on Junkrat, and uses the momentum of his shove to simply hurl him off the edge of the balcony.

So he’s falling, which sucks, and he can just see Mercy’s face peering over the side of the drop in absolute shock, which is pretty hilarious. He wonders what he’ll land on— the flat pavement or the spiky gates. He hopes like hell he doesn’t land on one of the fountains; that would just be too fucking ironic. Ultimately it won’t matter much what he lands on, because from this height there’s no way he’ll survive. He’s absently glad he let Roadhog in on his Big Bad Omnium Secret a few weeks back; at least it won’t die with him. 

Then there’s a thunderous roar, the kind that shakes all the pigeons off the building, and then something is hurtling toward him and suddenly his unhindered plummet jerks to a stop and he’s being hauled upward. He twists and gets a look at the thing keeping him tethered to this mortal coil— a familiar hook snagged into the back of his belt, a massive chain clanking along.

He zips up onto the platform and into Roadhog’s waiting arms, is immediately crushed tight to his massive chest in the most secure hug there is. ‘Hog is practically snarling with every rattling breath, and when Junkrat squirms around in his hold he sees the man who chucked him off the building trapped firmly under one gigantic boot, looking like he regrets every decision he’s ever made. The rest of the fighting has died down for now. There are a few scattered individuals from both sides still hanging around— he sees Mercy leaning on Tracer’s supporting arm, spots Reaper and Soldier 76 slumped against one another in what appears to be post-combat exhaustion, having worn each other to a standstill.

‘Hog squeezes him again, ’til he feels like his insides are going to pop, and he manages to wheeze out, “Air!”

The pressure lets up just enough for him to take a gasping breath, and before he can use that breath to say anything he’s being kissed within an inch of his life. Roadhog has his mask shoved up over his crooked, squashed nose and is lifting Junkrat fully off the ground in his enthusiasm, huge hands traveling over his body in a kind of checking-for-wounds-and-maybe-copping-a-feel combination. Junkrat flings his arms around his partner’s meaty shoulders, wraps his legs as far around ‘Hog’s waist as they’ll go, entwining the pair of them in full romance-film style right there on the balcony in front of everyone. He almost wants to point that out but that would require separating their mouths and he is by no means inclined to do so.

Finally it comes time to either breathe in or die and they part, each panting a little through matching big stupid grins. “Alright?” ‘Hog asks, voice unfiltered by his mask.

“Uh huh,” he replies dazedly, combing his fingers through the tuft of Roadhog’s hair. “Uh. ‘Hog. I don’t mean to put you off, cos I’m loving every second of this, but— didn’t you say no one was to find out about us?”

Roadhog only draws him closer, still smiling wickedly. “I don’t care.” He thinks it’s been made pretty obvious by now that no one who wants to continue living ought to mess with this particular romantic entanglement.

Over the sound of Junkrat’s delighted giggling he hears Soldier 76 call out from where he and Reaper are picking themselves up to leave, “We don’t care either!” Reaper shoots him a look and mutters darkly and he exclaims, “What? They’re on your team, you should be supportive!” The two chase each other onto the next building, still bickering, as the remaining heroes and villains depart, leaving the area empty aside from Junkrat, Roadhog, and the would-be Junkrat-slayer trapped under Roadhog’s boot.

‘Hog kisses Junkrat again, pulling a moan from him, only halting when they both hear the unwelcome sound of sirens drawing near. Junkrat whines in protest.

“Let’s go,” he suggests. “I ain’t in the mood to deal with cops.”

Roadhog rumbles his approval, fixes his mask and sets him down with some reluctance. Junkrat wobbles, regains his balance, and crouches down to get a look at the unfortunate man pinned under ‘Hog’s boot. The guy stares up at him, terrified and immobile— when Roadhog lands on someone, they stay landed on. Junkrat bares his teeth in a feral rictus. “Consider yerself lucky, mate. If we weren’t pressed for time, I’d park a brown one in yer mouth and nail all yer limbs down, ya fuckin’ smeg!” The man gurgles in fear, possibly not speaking due to the fact that his ribs are being slowly crushed. Junkrat’s grin only grows as he adds, “But fortunate for you, we gotta run, so I’ll leave it to me _boyfriend_ here!” He loves being able to say the word aloud, and he dances back giddily as Roadhog hacks out a menacing laugh and stomps down once, splattering bits of criminal everywhere. He grinds his heel down just a bit, then scrapes the bottom of his boot off on the edge of the balcony, grunting in satisfaction.

“Now let’s go,” he says, shouldering his hook and reaching out to sling one arm around Junkrat. He launches the hook to catch the sill of a window on the next building over, then swings them off their platform with practiced ease, keeping his charge pressed close like an old-fashioned Tarzan film. Junkrat cackles as the city rushes past them before they drop safely to the ground.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, curiosity dawning on him. “Did we even get the job done? Did anyone get at that safe or whatever?”

Roadhog pauses, thinking. “Dunno,” he admits. “Don’t much care.”

Junkrat goggles up at him as they duck into an alley to avoid the oncoming flash of police lights. “But what about getting paid? Or- or whatever we was supposed to be doin’ this for?”

‘Hog looks at him. “We were _supposed_ to be doing this for fun,” he growls. “Watching you get chucked off a building isn’t ‘fun’.”

“Oh, right.” Junkrat lets out that nervous little giggle he makes whenever Roadhog indicates that he cares about him. “Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, eh big guy?”

Roadhog growls again, but lovingly.


	5. Chapter 5

They’re quick to leave the city behind, stealing a car and traveling along the backroads on their way back to the safety of the desert (not to mention ‘Hog’s bike).

Junkrat’s surprisingly quiet for most of the trip, only throwing out the occasional bizarre comment on the scenery or the heist. He’s so deep in thought he doesn’t even demand snacks from the station they stop to refuel at, although he does absentmindedly devour the bag of crisps Roadhog puts in his hands (and he’s halfway to devouring the bag itself before ‘Hog tugs it out of his grasp).

It’s not until they stop at an abandoned barn for the night, hiding the stolen car in the woods behind it, that Junkrat speaks up about what’s on his mind.

“You’re sure you’re not…” He hesitates, steals a glance at ‘Hog. “I dunno, angry? About the others finding out? Thought you were all worried they’d grease us if they knew.”

Roadhog considers, aware of Jamison’s intent, earnest gaze. “People’re already trying to kill us. S’pose this won’t make too much of a difference.”

Junkrat grins and leaps up to kiss him, uncaring of the rubbery mask-snout in his way. ‘Hog makes that low, rough noise of satisfaction that Junkrat loves, and his hands chafe their way up the ridged line of his spine. When they part, Jamie purses his lips thoughtfully. “Anyway, I think a couple of ‘em might’ve already known. That one bird, Placer—“

“Tracer?”

“Yeah, that. She called you my ‘fella’.” He darts another look at ‘Hog, then fixes his gaze downward, trying to hide his blush. Despite their relationship, Roadhog’s always had in independent streak in him a mile wide, and he might rankle at the notion of belonging to anyone.

Roadhog coughs out his landslide of a laugh, doubling over and slapping his thighs in mirth. When he straightens, he reaches up and begins undoing the straps on his mask, and Junkrat perks up excitedly as he always does when Mako’s face comes into view. By the time the mask is off and ‘Hog’s pulling his hair out of its tie, Junkrat is nearly dancing in place with anticipation. Roadhog steps in close and leans down to kiss him properly, immediately feels thin fingers drag through his loose hair and scratch pleasantly against his scalp.

In one corner of the barn is a heap of old, slightly musty straw, and in another corner is a pile of battered horse blankets. They drape the blankets over the straw and give it a few kicks to shoo away the various rodents living in it, and hey presto, they’ve got a decent bed big enough for the both of them. ‘Hog scoops Jamie up and deposits him on the pile, divests him of his harness and shorts in record time, then helps him remove his artificial limbs with considerably more care, occasionally leaning in to kiss an exposed patch of freckles or a scar.

Outside of this, Roadhog is gentle as a sack of gravel.

Don’t get him wrong, Junkrat loves it rough and nasty, and for the most part that’s how they go about it— hair-pulling, face-fucking, snarling and biting, the kind of sex that shakes walls and destroys furniture (a series of flattened shacks and obliterated motel rooms line the wake of their travels, testament to the intensity of their passions). But sometimes ‘Hog gets in the mood to take things slow and, well, _sweet_ , and when he does there’s not a force on earth that can hurry him along. The first time it happened, a couple months or so after they started fooling around, Junkrat thought he’d die of dehydration, he came so many times. Afterwards he’d laid sprawled across the moth-eaten bedroll on the library floor in a stunned, silent stupor, wide-eyed and covered in sweat and jizz. Then, to add to the shocking weirdness of the situation, Roadhog had actually taken a nearby rag and begun gently wiping him clean, turning and lifting him with one huge hand to get both sides of him. To top it all off, ‘Hog had carefully undone both his prosthetics, placing them to one side before settling down and snuggling him up like the biggest, smelliest teddy bear that ever was.

‘Hog gets Junkrat spread out on the blankets to his satisfaction, runs both hands up and down his lean torso in the kind of searching-out-hidden-wounds-disguised-as-foreplay that he likes to do after a scrape. Seemingly pleased with the results of his massage, he hovers over Junkrat and slowly drags his gaze up the same path his hands drew. He rumbles an approving sound at what he sees. “Pretty boy,” he says, only half-teasing.

Junkrat squirms and glares. “Fuck off,” he mumbles, swiping ineffectually at him with the stump of his right leg. Roadhog chuckles, catches hold of the limb and kisses the ropey web of scars, which never fails to get to him. Sure enough, Junkrat makes an embarrassed gurgling sound and covers his face with his remaining hand, prompting Mako to laugh even harder. 

Jamison whines and Roadhog grips him by the leg, lifts so his hips hover above the mattress, then ducks down. He’s almost helpless like this, just the way ‘Hog likes him, and the big man takes great pleasure in driving him mad with lust. First he sucks a mark over the sharp jut of Junkrat’s hip, scrapes his teeth over the knob of bone and laps at it with his tongue before moving downward. His stubble drags against the tender skin in the hollow of one thigh, and then he’s snuffling his way through the thicket of hair with greedy intent, finding heat with his lips and putting his mouth to it. Junkrat gasps and ruts upward but ‘Hog is already moving further down, his fingers kneading at scarred, shuddering skin and combing upward over hair and taut muscle to rest on Junkrat’s belly. Jamie grabs at the vast hand, lacing his bony fingers through Mako’s thick, broad-knuckled ones. Roadhog laps at his hole with the broad of his tongue and Junkrat makes a shocked sort of hiccuping sound, his whole body going rigid, the toes on his remaining foot spreading and then curling in as he melts into the sensation. Roadhog chuckles throatily, earning a second hitching whimper, and delves back in for more. He braces one hand under Junkrat’s knee, keeping him spread and slightly raised, and glides the other down the uneven tan lines of his torso to press just the tip of one finger against his entrance alongside the blunt tongue. There’s lubricant in his pockets somewhere and he’ll fish it out in a moment, but for now he’s enjoying himself, enjoying the noises he’s causing and the feel of Jamie’s thighs squeezing tight around his ears.

Junkrat’s shaking all over, biting and gnawing at his lip in an effort to stifle the frantic little whines and whimpers he’s making, and Mako finally takes pity on him and pulls back, letting him drop onto the blankets. He’s hard, dripping already, and ‘Hog knows from experience that it wouldn’t take much at this point to push him over the edge. In fact…

Roadhog leans back just a bit, grinning at the sight laid out before him like a banquet, and does something that reduces Junkrat to a pile of jelly: he starts talking.

“You liked that, eh?” He rumbles, and Junkrat lets out a shaky moan, kneading at the bedding with his bony fingers. ‘Hog makes a show of licking his lips, leaning back in just enough to breathe hot against one shaking leg. “Good. I liked doing it. Like the way you taste…” He swipes his tongue over a pale scar, hears the stutter in Junkrat’s breathing and watches the accompanying spurt of precum hit his belly. “Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll do it again.” He reaches down and unzips his trousers and he knows Jamie’s watching because he can hear him moan when he pulls out his cock. He kisses the underside of Junkrat’s thigh. “Maybe next time I’ll let you sit on my face and ride it-“

He’s cut off by the wail Junkrat makes as he comes, twitching and arching and spurting between them. ‘Hog groans at the sight, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the hair under Jamie’s bellybutton, smearing sticky wetness into the skin. With his other hand he digs through his pockets until he comes up with the lube, slathers it onto his fingers and fits one slowly inside Junkrat while the smaller man writhes. He takes his sweet time, pumping that one digit in and out and relishing the loose-limbed, pleasure-addled mess he’s turned his partner into.

Junkrat’s mouth is dry from panting; he has to swallow a couple times before he can stammer out, “F-f- ‘Hog, fffuck’s sake, please—“

“Hmm?” ‘Hog’s lips twitch upward in a lazy smile, curling his finger and making Junkrat spasm. Already, the unrelenting stimulation is making Jamison’s cock fill and rise again, and he whimpers and shivers ecstatically.

“Fuckin’ arsehole!” His hand grips the blankets, hips rocking down onto the thick finger. “Fucking gimme more, gi- _fuck_ \- gimme yer cock already!”

Roadhog thinks it over, pressing a second finger in with the first and making Junkrat squeal with combined frustration and pleasure. “Not yet,” he decides aloud. “You can take another finger.”

“But I don’t waaannaaa,” Jamie whines, wriggling impatiently. Roadhog snorts and Junkrat sticks his tongue out at him, flushed and grinning, only to gasp and twitch when a third finger works its way inside him. ‘Hog leans in and bites the tender skin of his inner thigh, making him yelp, and slides his fingers free.

Another big dollop of lube and ‘Hog crawls closer, his cock in one hand, thumb rolling the foreskin back and forth over the reddened head, and Junkrat nearly incapacitates himself in his scramble to get his legs spread as far as they’ll go.

They make a noise at the same time when Roadhog penetrates him, Junkrat’s a breathless gasp and ‘Hog’s a deep, animal bellow that damn near shakes the rafters. Jamie wraps his shaking limbs around as much of ‘Hog as he can, feeling heavy breath against his neck and the pounding of another pulse over his own.

With another low, earthshaking sound, Roadhog draws back and grinds forward in a slow, deliberate movement. When that gets him a moan and a biting kiss to his shoulder, he rocks his hips again, picking up the pace and getting deeper with every thrust until his belly presses firmly against Junkrat’s hips. He finds Junkrat’s prostate and the wet heat around him squeezes tight and he swears, rutting harder into that spot, lifting his head to watch the hedonistic expressions on his partner’s face. He lifts one hand and catches hold of Jamie’s jaw, stroking one fingertip down his sweat-and-soot-dappled cheek, and the gorgeous little bastard turns his head and nips at the digit before grabbing ‘Hog’s wrist and shamelessly deepthroating his thumb. Roadhog curses again, his heart racing, and pounds into Junkrat like a freight train, which is exactly what Junkrat was hoping for.

‘Hog rolls them over in one sudden motion, one hand supporting and engulfing Junkrat’s back. Like this, they’re pressed even closer, Junkrat’s cock rubbing against Roadhog’s belly deliciously, his thighs spread as far as they’ll go over his partner’s hips. Panting, sweat gleaming along his chest, ‘Hog rolls his hips harder and harder, screwing up into Jamie as the smaller Junker’s high-pitched moans and babble start to fall apart into the unsteady, breathy _uh-uh-uh!_ sounds that let ‘Hog know he’s getting close again.

Roadhog grins up at him, the scars on his face bunching around his eyes adorably, and Junkrat hunches down to kiss him. ‘Hog wraps his free hand around Jamison’s dick and tugs gently, murmuring his name, and that’s all it takes; Junkrat comes a second time, messy and even louder than the first.

Almost immediately, he goes boneless and pliant in ‘Hog’s arms, and the big Maori Junker has only a few moments to admire the sweetly fucked-out look on Junkrat’s face before he feels his own climax building. He growls, grabbing Junkrat’s hips and moving him up and down on his cock while Jamie bucks and clenches and howls his approval. It hits him hard, and he roars loud as an avalanche, thrusting deep and staying there, grinding hard and shuddering through his release as he pumps it into Junkrat in thick, heady pulses.

They both lay in their gasping, sticky heap, trying to catch their breath for a stretch of time. Slowly, the sounds of the outside world filter in past the thundering of both their pulses. ‘Hog carefully lifts Junkrat, the smaller man letting out a weak warbling sound of protest as ‘Hog slides out of him, and sets him down on the blankets. Roadhog kicks his pants off the rest of the way and uses one corner of the bedding to dab at the wet, dripping mess between Junkrat’s thighs, while Junkrat chortles blissfuly and reaches up to play with the hair hanging down around ‘Hog’s shoulders. Satisfied with his perfunctory cleaning, Roadhog collapses onto his back among the blankets and hay, one arm tucked behind his head and the other automatically making a space for Junkrat to settle into.

“I been thinking,” he rumbles contentedly after a few minutes of basking, “We oughta get you some ink.”

“You what? But I’ve got ink,” Junkrat protests, confused, twisting to point at the faded marks on his bicep.

“Somethin’ intimidating,” he amends. “To make people think twice about throwin’ you off buildings.”

“Oh yeah?” Junkrat grins, propping himself up on the stump of his right arm. “What kinda tattoo didja have in mind, exactly?”

‘Hog hums, deep bass vibration, and reaches a hand out to settle possessively against the warm, wiry planes and ridges of Junkrat’s body. “‘Property of Roadhog’,” he growls.

Junkrat stares up at him, some combination of awe and surprise and excitement tingling up his spine. Then he bursts into a fit of giggles. “Yeah, awright,” he chortles, grabbing hold of the rough, square hand on his belly and squirming closer. “If you like, big guy. You gonna get one that says ‘Property of Junkrat’?” He’s joking, of course, but ‘Hog just looks at him steadily, shrugs.

“If you like.”

Junkrat’s eyes go even wider, his face aflame, and he ducks and buries his head against Roadhog’s arm to hide his reaction, quietly muttering a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Roadhog grunts affirmatively, chuckling along, and hauls the smaller man up to lay atop his belly. Junkrat beams at him, leans up to kiss him firmly on the cheek. “Love ya, Mako.”

‘Hog smiles back, his cheek dimpling right where Jamie kissed it, and strokes his fingertips up and down his partner’s back until his orange eyes drift shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Sort of an epilogue... I'm so glad you guys enjoyed this one for the most part! Thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos!

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The sun wakes Roadhog when it starts to creep in through the rotting roof of the barn, and after instinctively reaching for his gun and scanning the area, he settles back and squeezes a half-dozing Junkrat close, shushing him gently when he frowns and mutters. With no immediate danger, he’d prefer to let Jamie rest.

Roadhog yawns and lazily fixes his hair into its usual tuft, pulls on his mask and wonders what there might be for breakfast around here.

There’s a knock at the door.

They both freeze, looking at each other in quizzical surprise, and then realization hits them and they’re rolling off the bedding, ‘Hog snatching his hook and gun and crouching in front of Jamie while the latter pulls on his arm and leg in a scramble. Junkrat fumbles for his harness, pulls a grenade out of a pocket and nods, ready. With a snarl, Roadhog whips his chain around, catching the hook on the barn door and yanking it off its hinges, firing a blast of scrap at the same moment Junkrat pulls the pin and hurls his grenade at whoever’s decided to politely ambush them.

The explosion rocks the building, the early-morning birds outside scattering, and after a moment the smoke clears to reveal… nothing. No charred corpses, no screaming, bleeding victims or raging attackers. They pause, tense and confused.

“Hello!” Calls a perky voice from around the side of the barn. “Sorry we startled you!”

“We’re not here to fight!” A second, much gruffer voice says. “We’re gonna come around; do not shoot us!”

“Please!” Adds the first voice.

“It’s those hero types from yesterday,” ‘Hog growls, keeping his barrels trained on the door.

“Huh.” Junkrat absently tosses and catches a second grenade in one hand, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Should we see what they want?” ‘Hog grunts, so he cups his free hand around his mouth and hollers back, “Come ‘round with yer hands where we can see ‘em!” He pauses briefly and then adds, “And your feet! And any snacks you got in yer pockets!”

There’s a beat, and then a small plastic baggie of orange slices sails into view and lands in the doorway. Junkrat grins victoriously and Roadhog sighs behind his mask.

A slim figure follows the oranges, her hands held above her head and a friendly smile on her face.

“Sorry again, we figured we’d best knock but I guess we still- oh!” Tracer cuts herself off, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the Junkers just as Soldier 76 steps around the corner to join her, still talking.

“As I was saying, we’re just here to talk and OH NAKED, YOU ARE NAKED!” 76 flings both hands up to shield his eyes as Roadhog and Junkrat glance down at themselves, then each other.

“Well, we was in a hurry!” Junkrat snaps, making no move to cover himself. “We thought you lot were attacking! I’d rather have a bomb in me hand than pants on my bum, thanks!”

Tracer bursts into a fit of giggles and Junkrat joins in, folding in on himself, shoulders shaking. ‘Hog snorts in amusement and bends just enough to grab their clothes from the floor.

“How in the hell did you find us?” Jamison asks as he shuffles into his shorts and stows the grenade in his pocket.

“Oh. Right. Heh, well,” Tracer grins sheepishly. “Remember when we were fighting and I stole your detonator? Welllll, I may have also planted a tiny tracking device on you while that happened.”

“Clever girl,” Roadhog rumbles, grudgingly impressed, as he pulls on his dungarees one-handed (his other hand maintains its grip on his gun, just in case).

“So, what’re you here for?” Junkrat scratches his chest and looks them up and down. “You tryna arrest us? You’re not doing a very good job of it.”

“We’re actually here to ask you to help us.”

“With what?” Junkrat asks skeptically. “Blowin’ something up?”

“Uh, well, sort of?” Tracer bites her lip and glances at 76. “I mean, you’d likely have the chance to blow something up at some point.”

“Why would you want our help?” Roadhog wants to know.

“Yeah, we’re, y’know, ‘bad guys’!” Junkrat adds, as if they’ve forgotten.

Soldier 76 gives them a long look. “We saw you yesterday.”

“You’re not as bad as you seem,” Tracer adds with a wink. “Doctor Ziegler says ‘thank you’, by the way.”

“Who?” Junkrat wrinkles his nose uncertainly.

“Mercy,” Roadhog grunts.

“Ohhhh.” He shuffles in place, looking almost bashful. “Well, I- I owed her one. Cos of- reasons.” He blinks and snaps back to his usual hunched-in defensive posture. “That still don’t explain what you lot want with us.”

Soldier 76 nods. “We would like your help in dealing with a larger threat.”

“What kinda threat?” Junkrat narrows his eyes. “Omnics?”

“Aliens?” Roadhog asks at the same time.

Junkrat’s eyes widen. “Ooh, yeah, aliens! I’m changing my guess to aliens, too!”

“Neither of those things,” 76 says, actually sounding slightly apologetic. “Have you ever heard of an organization called Talon?”

Junkrat narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious of anything referred to as an ‘organization’. “No. Wait. Maybe. ‘Hog? Have we heard of them?” He nudges his partner with an elbow.

“They’ve tried to kill us a couple times,” Roadhog says with a rolling shrug.

“Right-o.”

“They’ve tried to kill us, too!” Tracer says cheerily, like she’s glad to have something in common with them. “They’re after a bunch of people.”

“Anyone they see as a potential threat to their plans for a new world order,” Soldier 76 clarifies. “We have to close ranks, join together and fight them before they can pick us off one by one.”

Roadhog grunts. He’s seen firsthand what good a ‘new world order’ does. He was part of a group with plans for one, once. Junkrat, meanwhile, is riled up simply over the word ‘order’.

“I do like stickin’ it to high-n-mighty wankers that think they can get away with being wankers,” he muses, glancing at Roadhog. “Whaddya think, ‘Hoggy?”

‘Hog considers, gazing steadily at Tracer’s hopeful, open face and Soldier 76’s solemn visage. He thinks about how neither of them seemed affected by the sight of his and Junkrat’s dramatic balcony kiss yesterday, and they don’t seem perturbed by the fact that Junkrat is currently shyly sliding one hand into Roadhog’s. They’re just waiting for an answer.

He tilts his head thoughtfully, curls his fingers around Jamie’s and grins behind his mask. “Could be fun.”


End file.
